


everything is icy and blue (you would be here too)

by captain_emmajones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But mostly fluff, CSSS2020, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, including mistletoe?, what if Hook had to adjust to all those new traditions, what if season 3B was set during Christmas time?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28289661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/pseuds/captain_emmajones
Summary: Set after 3x16 and before 3x17. Let’s pretend season 3B happened during Christmas time and Hook had to adjust to all of Storybrooke’s traditions on his own and that more time passed between Neal’s death and Hook’s curse. (Because it suits me.)When Hook learns about mistletoe, he starts carrying it around with him, all the time -- just in case Emma decides to join in the fun that was promised and kiss him. Except it doesn’t exactly go according to his plans.
Relationships: Belle & Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Henry Mills, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan & Emma Swan, Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard & Emma Swan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 54
Collections: CSSS2020





	everything is icy and blue (you would be here too)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klynn-stormz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=klynn-stormz).



> My dear klynn-stormz, here is your Christmas gift! I hope you'll enjoy it. I sparkled a bit of angst on top of a lot of fluff and banter ;) 
> 
> A huge thank you to therealtraveller776 who was an amazing beta, and to carpedzem for cheering me on always. 
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!

The sun is long gone when Hook and Henry finally sail back home. The stars and the moon have invaded the night sky, twinkling peacefully above their heads. 

Hook exhales a sigh of contentment, twirls of white smoke dancing out of his lips. 

“Quite chilly, isn’t it, lad?” 

Henry stands before him, spyglass firmly pressed against his right eye. It seems to take him a few seconds to register that Hook has been talking to him. 

“What?...No! I’m not even cold!” 

A quiet laughter jolts out of Hook’s mouth. Of course he isn’t cold. The lad has been looking mesmerized ever since they left port. It is a miracle he still knows his name. 

A mechanical swing of the wheel, cold fingers against cold metal -- and not warm wood, not like the Jolly -- and the small boat Hook has ‘burrowed’ slides gracefully into port. 

“Almost there, lad.” 

If Henry hears him speak, nothing in his demeanor gives it away. Hook’s heart smiles as something warm swells inside his chest. 

The sailor has to admit that Storybrooke’s docks in this late winter afternoon have proven to be a sight for sore eyes. They seem forever entrapped in shimmering clouds of misty darkness, the pavement glistening under unusually bright street lights. 

Hook frowns. 

“Tell me something lad, why are those street lights this colorful?” 

His question causes Henry to finally give up on the spyglass. He clicks it shut, and abandons the front of the boat to reach him. 

“Christmas lights. Why do you ask?” 

Although Hook has very little idea what this _Christmas_ thing is, he gathers from Henry’s matter-of-fact tone that it is on the list of things he shouldn’t be talking about with the boy if he doesn’t want Emma to kill him. 

“Oh, just like that, lad. My vision must not be what it used to, because I couldn’t make them out properly.” 

. 

Emma’s cheeks are flushed and her nose stained with red when Hook and Henry finally reach her. Her slim body appears tense under the quivering lights of the docks, and there is not an inch of her skin showing. 

“Everything alright?” she asks, voice hoarse from the cold. 

Her head is buried beneath what she calls “a beanie”. It is also red, and it is positively the most wonderful vision Hook’s had the pleasure of gazing at in weeks. 

“I think so, Swan. The lad is quite fond of the sea. Isn’t that right, Henry?” 

Henry is polite enough to look up from the video game he was already engrossed in to nod vigorously. 

“Yeah, it was so much fun. Thank you for taking me, Killian.” Henry dedicates a smile to Hook, to which the pirate answers back: “T’was my pleasure, lad.” 

The boy then shifts his attention to his mother. “Can I go wait in the car?” he asks. 

Hook watches as Emma pretends to think, for one minute -- eyes rolling and underlip tucked between her teeth -- before she drops the car keys into his hand. 

“Thanks, Mom. Bye, Killian!” Four words and the boy disappears as a gust of cold wind curls around the two warm bodies still outside. 

Emma scoffs a little as her eyes linger on her son settling himself comfortably in the yellow bug parked a few feet away and raises her eyes to gaze at Hook. 

The immediate effect it has on his heart rate is truly ridiculous, and Hook cannot hold back his smile. 

“Thank you for taking him,” she mutters quickly, scrunching her nose -- and her words seem to burn her lips.

Hook sees himself lean into her space as a smirk stretches his mouth. 

“Why, you’re most welcome, Swan.” 

He watches as her eyes widen and scrutinize him before a slow, timid smile curls up her lips. 

Behind her back, the waves crash tenderly against the harbour, claiming it as home. 

It’s always a sight for sore eyes, Emma Swan smiling at him, and Hook counts his blessings. 

“Oh, by the way, tell me something, Swan,” and as he speaks he leans into her space even more, bending forward as if Henry might hear them. 

Emma’s eyes grow wider, but she does not back away. 

It isn’t necessary, of course, and it isn’t like Henry is paying any attention to two of them anyway but neither Hook nor Emma seem willing to take that into account. 

“Yeah?” 

Her breathy tone and bright eyes cause Hook’s heart to leap inside his chest. As he squeezes his belt between his fingers to gain some composure, Hook gathers enough courage to incline his body towards hers even more, lips dangerously close to Emma’s face. 

“The lad mentioned a Christmas celebration, and I’m afraid I haven’t been updated on this subject.” 

Hook catches a whiff of Emma’s fragrance as he backs away to gaze into her eyes, cinnamon and vanilla invading his lungs, and he has the pleasure of seeing her face crease into a wider smile. 

“Christmas, uh? Don’t worry, I’ll make you flashcards.” 

“I don't know what that is but sure.” 

By the time he finishes his sentence, Emma’s grin is dazzling and Hook begins considering freezing this moment forever in time and possibly angling his face just right so that he might meet her lips, perhaps, just perhaps -- 

“It’s a holiday from our world. It’s supposed to be religious, but for most people it’s mostly an occasion to exchange gifts and kiss under the mistletoe--”

“-- kiss under the what?” 

And Hook sees the bubble burst, just like that. A veil falls over her gaze and her smile dies away in a frown.

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” Even as she talks, her legs take a step backward, and Hook can only watch as this invisible tether between them seems to stretch and stretch. 

He wonders if she feels it too, this suffocating feeling as she pulls away. The answer is cruel: surely not, or she wouldn’t be pulling that way. 

“I see. Well, goodnight, Swan.” 

Although she’s just begun walking away, Hook knows Emma is long gone when she whispers back: “‘Night, Hook.”

.

Since Emma doesn’t seem willing to share anything with him these days, Hook settles his mind on learning more about this world’s tradition on his own -- which ends up being quite easy, as he fumbles through Storybrooke’s library. 

The Wicked Witch hasn’t shown up in two weeks now — since Neal died — which allows Hook to take some liberties with his time schedule. 

“Do you need any help?” 

Hook startles and turns around to face two, big blue eyes. 

“Belle,” he says, but it sounds a lot like a reproach. Belle’s clearly understood it because she is frowning now. 

“I saw you all alone with your books in the Christmas section and I figured you might need help to understand this world’s traditions,” she explains but any warmth has definitely escaped her tone. 

Guilt immediately circles Hook’s throat, and he is gentler when he says: “No, I’m fine lass but... thank you for offering.” 

Belle simply nods as a faint smile flickers across her face. And Hook thinks guilt is quite a vile thing because it pushes him to give up on the book in his hand _Christmas Traditions to Brighten your Holidays--_ silly, silly title -- and press his palm across the brunette’s shoulder. 

“Actually, you might be able to enlighten me on something…” 

A wink, and the right corner of Belle’s lip raises slightly.

“Sure, what do you want to know?” 

“Swan mentioned a kissing tradition that involved toes of some sort?” 

She’s frowning now, and it cannot possibly be good. 

“What?” Her hands meet her hips as she furrows her brows harder. “Oh you mean _mistle_ toe!”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said.” 

Hook watches as Belle’s grin becomes impish. “I’m not sure Emma would like me telling you this,” she begins, coy. 

“Which is exactly why I want you to tell me.” 

Belle shrugs, glances down for a bit. “Well, I guess there’s no harm…” 

.

  
  


“So you mean to tell me if this _plant_ hangs over two people, they have to kiss?” 

Hook’s startled blue eyes are quite a comic sight, Belle must confess. Surprised glimmers glisten amidst tender blue; he looks younger. 

“Yes, that's what I mean.” 

But Belle knows Hook’s cheerful smile is merely a facade. A few minutes ago, he seemed so...lonely, when she entered the library, nose buried in his book, and Belle figures it isn’t quite fair that he ends up having to learn it all -- on his own.

No one deserves to be left alone. Especially not during the holidays. 

“And what does it look like?” 

Belle gives a little chuckle. “Why? You want to use it?” 

Hook’s answer comes out as a matter of fact. “Aye.” 

And he looks so boyish, with this Christmas book in his hand and this hope hovering his eyes that Belle cannot help but smile frankly. 

“I’m not sure Emma will fall for that.” 

“Never try never know, lass.” 

Belle sighs, scanning the shelves of books. Her eyes settle on one that she flips through rapidly. 

“There,” she points with her finger, “this plant with the green leaves and red berries? It’s mistletoe.” 

Hook peers above her shoulder. “Thank you, lady Belle.”

In a wink, the pirate has disappeared out of the library and Belle scoffs— amused, in spite of herself. He won’t be stopped, will he? 

.

Hook and Henry are playing dice at Granny’s when he figures he might as well just ask the boy for more information. 

“I’ve got a question, mate,” he begins, uncertain as to how to address the subject without sounding suspicious to those teenage ears. 

Thankfully, Henry’s little concerned about Hook as he shoves French fries into his mouth. 

“Yeah?” 

Hook tries not to look horrified as one French fry tries to escape and Henry tucks it in expertly with one greasy finger. 

“Where do you think I could find mistletoe in this town?” 

That does make Henry stop for one tiny second, eyes open wide and eyebrows raised. 

“Mistletoe? Why?” 

Hook clears his throat, looks down at his fingers stretched on the table and lies: “Mary Margaret sent me.” 

From the look on Henry’s face, he isn’t convinced. _Smart boy._

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve been living in this town very long. You should ask my mom about it.” 

Hook frowns. “Nah, let’s not bother her with this when she’s already busy with her...how does she say it…?” 

Henry’s eyebrows reach unprecedented height. “...Case?” 

“Aye. That.” Why would Swan bother with cases, that Hook doesn’t bloody know -- but it’s part of the things he doesn’t question. 

.

If there’s one thing Hook’s learnt over the years, it is that if one wants something badly enough, it always ends up in one’s lap. However, the tricky thing is it rarely lands softly or in an expected way. 

As Emma and he investigate the west side of the forest looking for the Wicked Witch, he quite literally _stumbles_ onto mistletoe. 

As things turn out, it is quite a painful venture and it involves gazing for a bit too long at Emma who is a little far behind and not long enough at the vicious root right under his feet -- not that Hook truly thinks he is to blame -- and plummeting to the floor, head first, leading up to _Emma_ falling on top of him in a colorful “HOOK”. 

Hook groans at the impact but he isn’t about to complain -- Emma falling on top of him might be the only way she’ll fall for him these days. 

Emma, on the other hand, isn’t so pleased. 

“What the hell? Can’t you look where you’re going?” she hisses as fiery green eyes pierce through his soul from under golden strands of hair. 

“I didn’t bloody mean to do that!”

Hook wishes he didn’t sound like a ten-year-old boy, but that’s what it’s come to these days with Emma. 

Emma grunts some more before rolling onto her side and kneeling to spring to her feet. 

“You’re impossible”, she mumbles, and it sounds a lot like she might just kill him as she taps snow off her knees. “Tripping in the snow as if the Wicked Witch couldn’t kill us both on sight…” 

Hook keeps his lips resolutely closed. When Swan starts rambling about him, he knows better than to interfere and possibly worsen the situation. 

She’s still dusting snow off her jeans when suddenly, she stops. And stares at him. 

Hook’s toes curl in his boots. “What?” 

Emma scowls and he thinks she’s hesitating. “You’ve got...” she starts and then seems to catch herself up and stops. 

Hook is about to ask what he’s got, but then Emma’s walking towards him, her hand raised up, and before he knows it her fingers have landed into his hair.

“Don’t move…” she whispers. Hook stands very still, feeling a blush creep up his skin, eyes lowering slowly not to stare. 

From his height, he is able to see the slight freckles dusted over her small nose, and her pink lips and, -- perhaps he ought to look at the ground. 

Emma’s face remains blank as she rummages through his hair, gentle fingers sieving through it, but a hint of red does stain her cheeks. When she retreats, the glimmer of a smile lingers on her lips. 

“You had mistletoe in your hair,” she finally explains, with that quiet, abashed tone that’s only too rare. 

Hook swallows down, heart drumming. “Thank you for the assistance, Swan.” 

But then she’s quick to avert her gaze and Hook knows the spell has been broken as the small sprig of mistletoe lands onto the snow-coated ground in a faint whisper, 

“Come on, let’s go. We’ve already wasted enough time.” 

Hook lets her stride forward, making sure she isn’t looking at him before stooping down and picking up the small plant to slide it into his coat. He promises himself to come back for more. _We’re not about to waist treasures, now, are we..._

. 

Hook is a subtle man, but he is aware that he cannot rightly expect Granny to be okay with him sticking mistletoe onto the window above Emma’s booth without asking first. 

So he does. 

“Why isn’t there mistletoe here? Isn’t it a Christmas tradition?” He begins, the picture of innocence, as he twirls a spoon into his cup of tea. 

Granny sees right through him. “Very cute of you to be concerned about our traditions, Hook,” she mumbles, piling up plates onto a drying rack. 

He nods, smiles even. “Fortunate are we that I’ve already stocked up on it.” 

Granny’s eyes pierce through his soul. “How fortunate indeed.” 

She lets him, of course. Not that Hook had any doubt. 

.

When Emma strolls down the B&B’s stairs to go claim her daily hot cocoa and bear claw, Henry still caught up in a teenage coma, she does think Hook looks especially weird -- staring at her with a glint in his eyes that she can only coin as mischief. 

“What are you up to?” she mumbles on sliding into her booth. 

Hook says nothing but leaves his spot next to Granny at the bar to come and sit down in front of her. Emma doesn’t have it in herself to complain -- it’s too early for that and it’s not like it would make him go away anyway. 

“Nothing, Swan. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asks, pointing towards the window pane. 

  
Emma tilts her face to gaze through the window. She distinguishes a sky heavy with grey clouds of snow and looks back at him with a puzzled frown in her eyes. He _is_ being suspicious. She squints. 

“Is that grey sky the reason you’re so cheery?” she asks, and then dives into the hot cocoa Granny just dropped in front of her. 

At least, hot cocoa is still sweet and perfect and doesn’t disappoint her. 

“Can you blame me for being happy to see you?” 

Emma nearly chokes on her beverage but she catches herself soon enough. Instead, she furrows her brows and proceeds to ignore as well as she can the stubborn leap of her heart. 

“You’re never _that_ happy to see me,” she retorts, smothering a smile, and then drinks up another mouthful of hot cocoa. 

Why is she encouraging him? 

“Allow me to disagree, Swan. Plus, look up: there is a wonderful opportunity to make me happier.” 

“Why would I want to make you hap-?” she begins, but then she discovers what he’s pointed at with his hook and the end of her sentence vanishes from her mind. 

It takes a lot of willpower not to burst into laughter or stab him in the face with her little spoon -- which one she hasn’t made up her mind on just yet -- and instead plaster the blankest expression she can conjure on her face....

...which is in that case a silly, silly smile. 

“You’re really desperate if you think mistletoe is what it’s going to take for me to kiss you,” she retorts, and she really hopes the heat she feels blooming on her face isn’t showing up. 

From the look on Hook’s face, however, it is definitely showing. Emma wants to rip that stupid, smug smirk off his face. 

“Can you blame me for trying?” 

This time she cannot hold back the chuckle that’s bubbling inside her throat as she shakes her head. _Idiot._ Her cheeks hurt. 

“No, of course not, if you don’t expect to succeed.” 

And he smiles that smile, that _“that’s when the fun begins”_ smile and stands up. 

“We’ll see to that, Swan.” 

And when Granny asks her “So, mistletoe, uh?” Emma figures the grin spreading across her face isn’t her best poker face and she pretends to be exceptionally thirsty for hot cocoa -- mostly to distract Granny’s from the flush on her cheeks. 

.

Hook is meticulous in his endeavours, and has the sense of details, Emma will give him that. 

She slowly finds out that the whole town suddenly is brimming with mistletoe. Mistletoe in the B&B’s corridor, mistletoe in the laundromat room, mistletoe in the library, mistletoe everywhere. 

Mistletoe even in the leather satchel Hook carries around everywhere with him. “ _You never know when the occasion might be right, Swan. You have to be prepared.”_

Although she hates him for it, she does not hate him nearly as much as she hates herself for not hating it completely. 

After all, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

For instance, when Mary Margaret and David notice it above their head at Granny’s, they smile and meet halfway in a kiss. The other day, Granny’s lips also found Ruby’s forehead and left a sonorous smack there -- a rare display of affection between the two women -- and Ruby then proceeded to stain Emma’s left cheek with a lovely burgundy color. 

No one knows Hook is the one hanging them there -- except for Granny -- and Emma wishes she would find it more ridiculous. (Even a little bit, that’ll do to make her feel better about herself.) 

. 

They are only a few days from Christmas Eve when, after another endless afternoon spent patrolling, Mary Margaret starts musing over the Christmas spirit in the sheriff station. 

“I just love Christmas and I am so glad we are spending it together, this year -- Wicked Witch or not.” 

Mary Margaret’s right hand brushes over her round belly while the other rests above David’s shoulder. 

Emma sits in a corner; exhaustion is weighing down her limbs, coloring her world blue. The snow seems to have sunk into her skin, crystalizing over her muscles. 

She can hardly share their enthusiasm. With the Wicked Witch on the run, she’s had little time to think about the holidays -- if not for mistletoe because of a certain someone -- and what it means to spend Christmas with her parents and her son. Henry still hasn’t recovered his memories and all she can think about is avenging Neal’s death and the life she gave up on, back in New York.

“Should we invite Regina?” Emma asks in a breath. This all starting to sound a lot like a complicated masquerade. 

She stares at the bright, yellow neon lights above her head. She’s stared at them so many, lonely times, but now their sight is almost comforting... and then, slowly, slowly, flutters her eyes shut… 

It would all be so simple, if they went back to New York. No more villains, no more happy endings to bring, no more sacrifices to make -- just Emma, a mother, and her son in a normal, quiet life. It was enough. _She_ would be enough.

Silence. Emma cannot see her parents’ faces but she thinks she guesses quite well their expression anyway. 

And then her mother’s voice, a bit blurry, as if erupting from another reality: “I mean, yes, we probably should or she’ll be alone for Christmas Eve. We’ll just have to tell Henry this family is really close to the mayor.” 

“I still don’t know why you guys celebrate Christmas. It’s not even from your world,” Emma mumbles and yawns. 

She is tired, so very tired. And celebrating Christmas always did feel like staring at an open wound that will not heal. 

“Then we should also invite Belle…”

Emma hears her mother sigh. “In that case, maybe we should just all gather at Granny’s.” 

Emma opens her eyes. The bright neon lights above her head are no longer soothing; they glare and burn. There will be no happy ending for the Savior. 

“That makes sense,” she whispers and stands up before she can sink into another lethargy 

Emma rubs her eyes and stretches her sore muscles. 

“I gotta pick up Henry. Hook and he went sailing this afternoon,” she says as she slips one arm back into her jacket and another yawn quivers out of her. 

“You should tell Hook, Emma,” adds her mother while Emma sieves impatient fingers through her hair. 

Emma stops in her steps, arches one eyebrow. There is still so much exhaustion clinging to her bones and clouding her mind. “Why should I be the one telling him?” 

Emma’s mother isn’t impressed by her petulant tone. “Because you’ll see him tonight, Emma.” 

Emma winces. “Right.”

Christmas always sucked for Emma. She doesn’t know why this year should be any different.

. 

Emma nearly hates Hook on sight when she sees him reach the B&B alongside Henry, his arm swang around his shoulder and this stupid gust of wind playing with his thick, black hair. She rubs her hands together to warm them up. At least the cold breeze is enough to sharpen her senses and wake her up. 

It does warm her heart, to see Henry and he get along just fine, not that she’d admit it under torture or something. 

Henry greets her with a hug and Hook with a tilt of his face and an intolerable smile. As they enter the B&B together in silence, warmth curls around their bodies, hugging them tightly, and Emma unzips her jacket on the way up the stairs. 

“Go take a shower, Henry. I’ll be here in a sec,” she tells her son, palms on his shoulders to guide him inside their room. 

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Hook peer at her but she ignores him. “‘kay, Mom.” 

The door bangs close behind her back and Emma shifts to face Hook staring at her with his insufferable blue eyes and a quiet smile and that silly, _silly_ mistletoe hanging between them -- teasing her, it seems. 

Smells of food and the faint rustle of conversations surround them as they stand in the corridor -- as if isolated in a liminal space. 

Emma blinks, breathes in, inhaling some courage, and exhales: “We’re going to celebrate Christmas all together at Granny’s.”

She can tell he isn’t following because he looks taken aback for a moment and she hates seeing him like this -- when the mask cracks and light spills in and illuminates this earnest look on his face. It’s really hard then to convince herself that she does not care -- not at all, not one bit. 

“Are you inviting me, Swan?” he asks, and Emma knows he means to sound impish but something else is rearing its head behind the sly smile and Emma feels a weird pang, down in her stomach. 

“I’m _not_ inviting _you_ ,” she retorts but she doesn’t have it in herself to keep her armor on tonight and she feels herself smile a sluggish smile. “ _Everyone_ is invited.” 

He’s tilting his head then, in that manner that has a terrible effect on Emma’s heartbeat, and slowly bends down towards her -- his fragrance filling her lungs. 

Emma thinks then that her eyelids are definitely far too heavy, that she should sleep, and she watches herself lean into him. 

“So,” she begins again, voice hoarse and it isn’t quite because of the cold, “are you coming or not?” 

But then, somehow, something seems to shatter between them and Hook takes a step back. Emma’s stomach gives another lurch and she has to fight the instinctive spring of her hand towards his arm. 

“I’m sorry, Swan, but I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.” 

“Why?” The word comes out of her mouth before she can think about it. 

From the colored windows, Emma can make out the sun setting behind Hook’s back -- purple and pink clouds softly floating away -- and that sadness everywhere -- on his face, in her open palms with nothing to hold, in that distance between them. 

Emma clenches her jaw as she watches him, as she watches him pulling away from her. 

“I don’t think it is my place to be,” he simply answers.

Emma’s stomach twists. 

This same urge to touch him burns her fingertips, owls that she should take a step forward. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand why _he won’_ t, why _she feels_ that -- 

Instead she remains very firm on her legs and smiles a faint smile and says: “I understand. Just know that if you want to drop by, you’re welcome to.” 

A grin flickers across his face, but the glimmer dies before it reaches its eyes. “I appreciate that, Swan.” 

And then she says: “Goodnight, Hook.” 

And feels something bitter tug, _tug_ , inside of her when he bows his head and disappears without a word. 

. 

  
  


As Emma expected, this Christmas Eve dinner in Storybrooke is...something. 

Granny’s diner is bursting with people and clatters of heels and a silly, silly _jingle bell_ rattles the walls. For the occasion, everyone brought a dish of their own while Granny arranged the bar to turn it into some kind of buffet where the guests get to pick and choose what they want to eat. 

Emma stands on the side, an empty glass of champagne clasped between her fingers, as she watches her son queue near the buffet. 

Emma isn’t hungry. In fact, it feels like her stomach is full to the brim with heavy bricks and she cannot swallow anything else down. 

As her gaze wanders and lingers on the Christmas tree, near the stairs, Emma isn’t so sure she wants to be here at all. 

She wants to blame the Wicked Witch for her lack of enthusiasm, but the truth is this scene of profusion and happiness is quite painful to watch. 

There are so many people, and so much noise, and Emma feels like the light garlands are mere colorful spots dancing before her eyes, twirling and twirling, and they will not stop and she wishes they would. 

Hook isn’t there. In fact, since their last conversation in the corridor, he has seemed quite inclined on avoiding her -- which is fair, considering it’s exactly what she’s been doing since she got back from New York. 

Emma sighs, lowering her gaze to watch the Champagne bubbles fizzing inside her glass. Perhaps if he were here, it would be a bit more bearable. Emma frowns, fingers clutching around her glass. _Nonsense._

A warm hand closes over Emma’s shoulder. 

Emma startles, but when she looks up, she only meets Mary Margaret’s gentle green eyes.

“Emma, your plate is still empty. Are you sure you don’t want anything?” 

Emma brushes off the attention. “I’m okay for now, thank you. I’ll go get something later.” 

Dammit. She doesn’t mean to sound this cold, doesn’t mean to push her away like this, but thankfully for her Mary Margaret knows best. 

The next thing she knows her mother is sitting down on a chair next to her. 

“Is everything alright, Emma?” 

Emma hates the concern she hears in her voice, or rather she hates that it is somehow enough to tighten her throat and burn her eyes, and that there is a part of her that is _desperate_ to feed on it. Maybe, just maybe, her mother can help her lift the bricks down in her stomach.

“I’m okay, I’m just --” 

But then Emma glances down again, and she stares at mother’s hand, brushing over this round, loved belly and Emma’s breath catches in her throat. 

_Run._

“Emma, you are…?” 

Something clatters down to the floor, and suddenly everything is too much. Emma’s eyes widen and before she knows it she’s moved up from her chair, heart pounding. 

“I need to get some air,” she says very quickly, putting her coat on with trembling fingers. 

The siren keeps blaring in her mind. _Run. Run. Run._

“Please, will you make sure Henry eats something? I won’t be long.” 

Emma does not wait for her mother’s answer to flee from the dinner, bursting through the front door. 

The icy winter air leaps onto her skin just like she expected it to and Emma sighs in relief, closing her eyes. Her legs are still trembling beneath her weight, and her blood is still pulsating at her temples, but at least she is outside now. Her lungs quickly fill in with December smells — burnt wood, misty dead leaves and something almost magical that crackles as she breathes. 

Outside, beyond the quiet chirping of insects, there is no noise. And it is incredibly peaceful. 

Emma breathes in, and out, envisioning her anxiety slowly flowing out of her body like trails of electricity. 

“Swan, are you alright?” 

Her eyes shoot open as her heart skips a beat. _There he is._ Hook is sitting alone, his flask of rum in hand and his legs crossed under the table. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice still stammering. 

_Shit._ She didn’t mean it to sound like that. Too late, Hook’s smile has already faded into a mirthless expression. Emma curses herself inward. 

“It is always a pleasure to see you too, Swan.” 

Oh she hates the tone of his voice, this distant, cold tone that sounds so sad, so sad. She cannot bear it. 

“I’m sorry,” she exhales rapidly and she sees his eyebrow raise up under the surprise as she heaves short breathes. “I didn’t mean it like that.” A pause to stretch her hands, to feel the cold seize them gently. And then she tries again: “What I meant is.... why are you not inside?” 

He’s quick to strike back but his tone is tender:“Why aren’t you?” 

Although her heart still beats uncomfortably fast, he makes her smile. 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

She wonders if he can tell, if he can tell that she is still shaking, if he can tell that it is helping to simply be there and talk about something else. 

Unfortunately for her, her legs are still frozen and she stands on the stairs leading up to Granny’s as he ponders his words. 

Of course he can tell. _Open book._

“I’m not sure people really want me there,” he says. 

Emma’s stomach lurches forward just as her legs begin moving against her will. “That’s not true,” she begins, still walking towards him. 

She does not understand the wave of relief that washes over her as she strides his way, and suddenly the Champagnes bubbles are fizzing gently inside her empty belly. 

“Is that so?” He asks, his tone polite and distant. 

“Yes,” she asserts. She fists her cold palms. “People want you around. Look at Henry, he really likes you. And I --” she begins and then stops in her tracks. 

She’s standing before him now, and he’s staring at her with his bold blue eyes, his expression blank. 

He isn’t making this easier for her, but when did she make things easy for him? 

“And you…?” He’s challenging her, taunting her to jump the one step she will not take with him. 

She breathes in the cold air. 

“And I could use you around, in case something bad happens--” 

His mask finally drops, his eyebrow raising. “-- in case something bad happens?” he repeats, frankly grinning now. 

Emma’s lips quiver with a smile. “In case something bad happens,” she confirms, nodding. 

All anxiety has now departed from her body and Emma feels light for the first time in...in a very long time. 

And then Hook’s standing up in front of her, and Emma’s surprised to see how close they’ve gotten. 

There is this terrible moment during which they both stare at each other, and Emma glances down at his lips and fancies herself leaning in and -- 

“It’s a shame you’re not carrying that stupid leather satchel, tonight,” she says. 

She does not leave him time to ponder over her words before she crosses Granny’s door again. 

As things turn out, Hook fills the chair next to hers quite nicely. And by his side, the dinner isn’t that noisy and overwhelming anymore -- not that Emma would tell him. 

“Killian showed up! That’s great!” Henry looks up from his game when the pirate has gone to get one more serving of turkey. 

Emma smiles down at him. “Yeah. I’m glad, too.” Hook definitely seems at ease, twirling among the rest of the guests, one eyebrow raised as he examines the food on display. 

Clearly, he was wrong. He fits in just fine. And Emma starts thinking perhaps she was wrong, too. 

“It’s good for him, you know,” her son continues and Emma blinks to see Henry, head down, focused on his game as he speaks, “I don’t think he has that many friends here, but he definitely likes you.” 

Emma is glad Henry isn’t looking at her then, because it saves her the embarrassment of having to justify the blush on her cheeks. 

When Henry’s climbed back up to the B&B to get some sleep, and everyone’s helped to clean the dinner, and Hook proposes one last drink outside, Emma may or may not ask him to go ahead in order to retrieve a sprig of mistletoe from the window above her booth. 

She may or may not slide it into her pocket and join the pirate outside. 

She lets him tell his ravishing tales of pirating and freedom, as they exchange his flask of rum. The starry sky is their only quiet companion as they sit outside until eventually the tingle of her lips cannot be ignored anymore, and Emma gets the plant out of her coat. 

The bewildered look on Hook’s face is a sight for the ages. 

“Pirate,” he says then, and he probably means to say more, but Emma is holding the mistletoe above their heads resolutely. 

“Tradition is tradition” she says, even as her free hand already closes over the lapel of his coat. 

“As you wish…”

Later, much later, Emma will blame the mix of rum and champagne for the way their lips met in an icy, starry kiss and Emma lingered above his lips, just a little bit, unable to get enough of him, until they were both panting outside of Granny’s -- forehead against forehead, twirls of white smoke escaping their mouths. 

And Hook will definitely tease her about her definition of “one time things” but surely that matters little when she can just grab the lapel of his coat to make him shut up once and for all. 


End file.
